I took a job bathing a paralyzed billionaire because my children were starving and I had no other choice. I told myself it was only work, only a…
The roof leaked.
Wallpaper peeled from the walls.
“You’ll know the room,” I whispered.
Then I knew.
Our childhood bedroom.
Ryan and I had shared it until he was sixteen.
I went to the corner near the radiator.
When we were children, Ryan had hidden comic books beneath a loose floorboard there.
Christopher watched as I pried it up.
Beneath the floor was a metal box.
Inside were flash drives.
Documents.
Photographs.
And one small prepaid phone.
Christopher stared at it.
“That could destroy Marcus.”
A floorboard creaked downstairs.
We froze.
Christopher whispered, “Did you lock the door?”
“Yes.”
Another sound.
Footsteps.
Christopher reached for his phone.
No signal.
Then Marcus Bennett appeared in the doorway.
He held a gun.
My blood turned to ice.
“You always were persistent, Christopher.”
I moved instinctively in front of the wheelchair.
Marcus smiled.
“And you must be Rachel.”
“You knew my brother.”
“Oh, I knew Ryan very well.”
My hands clenched.
“Where is he?”
Marcus tilted his head.
“Still hopeful?”
Christopher said, “Put the gun down.”
Marcus laughed.
“What exactly are you going to do?”
Christopher’s face became stone.
“You killed my father.”
“No. Cancer did.”
“You tried to kill me.”
“That remains unproven.”
Marcus looked at the metal box.
“Give me that.”
“No,” I said.
He pointed the gun at me.
“Rachel.”
Christopher spoke quietly.
“Do it.”
I stared at him.
“Give him the box.”
I realized he was buying time.
I slowly lifted it.
Then a voice came from behind Marcus.
“Drop the gun.”
Marcus froze.
My entire body stopped.
I knew that voice.
Older.
Rougher.
But I knew it.
Marcus turned.
A man stood in the hallway holding a pistol with both hands.
Gray touched his beard.
A scar crossed his left cheek.
